13 - You'll be on your own (i)
CLAIRE
I always woke up to silence in the inn.
The place usually made little sounds—wood creaking, pipes groaning, almost like an old house breathing in its sleep. But this morning the silence almost felt different. Like even the walls had been to Mason’s funeral and carried back the same bitter taste stuck in my mouth.
L.A. never felt like this. Back there, noise was constant—cars, voices, music spilling from open doors. I used to complain about it, but now I almost missed it..
I rolled over and stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster. Almost a month in Grayhaven and I should have been used to it by now.
I dragged myself out of bed, the floor cold against my feet, and crossed to the window. Grayhaven was still. No footsteps on the street, no shop doors opening, no kids on bikes cutting across the square like I sometimes saw in L.A
Downstairs, I could smell breakfast—the usual eggs and toast smelling through the old floorboards. Mr. and Mrs. Ellery were probably downstairs already. They were early birds, the kind who moved about the kitchen before the sun had fully made up its mind to rise.
My clothes from the funeral were still draped over the chair where I’d dropped them—black dress, crumpled stockings, shoes that pinched too tight. I should’ve hung them, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch them. Not yet.
Instead, I pulled on jeans and a sweater, ran my fingers through my hair, and tried not to look like someone who had no real reason to stay here anymore.
Instead, I pulled on jeans and a sweater, ran my fingers through my hair, and tried not to look like someone barely holding it together. The case might have been keeping my mind off L.A , but the endless gloom of death—didn’t seem to lift.
I stepped into the hallway, and made my way downstairs.
The breakfast room was dim when I stepped inside,
Mr. and Mrs. Ellery were already there, as always, sitting in their places.
After so many mornings I had grown used to the sight of them—Mrs. Ellery upright and rigid, her gray hair was usually wound into a bun so tight it seemed painful, and Mr. Ellery with,his usual wide smile often sitting strangely on his face.
But this morning, there was no smile.
“Good morning,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm
Mr. Ellery glanced up from his newspaper and gave me a nod. “Morning, Miss Monroe,” he answered quietly. His voice was softer than usual, it was lacking the cheer he often tried to put into it.
Mrs. Ellery did not reply. She poured herself tea with , her eyes never once lifting to meet mine.
I sat down at the table, and a plate of eggs and toast was set in front of me without a word. No greeting, no warmth.
The silence between us felt sharper than it had before,They had grown used to me in their own way, but not with kindness. It was the way you get used to a cold slipping under the door—something you learn to live with but never welcome.
And now, after Mason’s death, after word had spread about me asking questions where I shouldn’t, even that thin layer of tolerance seemed to be wearing away. Their eyes avoided me, but their silence spoke clearly enough: I did not belong here.
My mind was already on the day ahead. I had only one goal: speak to Wren.
For someone who had invited me here to look into the Cal Rourke case, his behavior had turned strange. Too distant. As if he regretted ever bringing me into this at all. As if there was something he wanted to keep hidden.
That was why, before I finally forced myself into uneasy sleep last night, I had sent him a text. Only four words.
We need to talk.
Short enough that he couldn’t ignore it. Direct enough that he had to respond. Whether he would actually meet me, or find some excuse to avoid me, I didn’t know. But I was certain of one thing: Thomas Wren was keeping secrets. And he knew more than he let on.
The eggs on my plate had gone lukewarm by the time I finally forced myself to take a bite. The Ellerys moved around the room—tea poured, dishes shifted, silverware set back in place.
It was almost like sitting at the table with strangers. I picked at the toast, pushing crumbs across the plate.
Then the door slammed open.Both Mr. and Mrs. Ellery flinched at the noise. Neither looked at me.
A second later, I felt it—that unmistakable change when someone else is in the room before you’ve even turned your head.
I looked up.
Thomas Wren stood in the doorway. His shoulders seemed broader in the dim light. His eyes found mine instantly, and for the first time since I’d met him, there wasn’t even the pretense of civility in his face.